Hey, You've Got to Hide Your Love Away
by kreekey
Summary: John Lennon seems invincible - to everybody else. Sometimes, he convinces himself. He encounters a woman who ensures he knows otherwise. She's a nightmare on two legs. She knows the strings of Eleanor Rigby three years prior to its release. She reveals something to John that he doesn't want to hear. John was never good at coping with bad news. Full-length summary inside.
1. Things (she) Said Today

_Full Summary_: He's John Lennon in the early 60s. He's funny, rich, handsome, famous - a Beatle. Few people know he's more than that. Or, in some ways, he's less. John can be happy as long as that part of him remains unseen. It makes it easier to live with himself.

Somebody knows John's secret. She knows things that would be revealed long after his death. Not all-knowing - she's just ahead of his time. Literally. She's a nightmare on two legs. She's the paranoia in his brain. There isn't a wish to blackmail him - just to tease him and watch him squirm. She's inexplicable like that. This, of course, makes John feel like his world is breaking at the seams. And John never learned how to just let it go.

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_A/N:_ Hello, thanks for giving this a chance! I suppose this has implied time travel/omniscience (but not sci-fi, supernaturalness, or fantasy). I see it more as angst with a twist than anything. This was the first fanfic I wrote (originally posted on AO3). I always encourage critiques, corrections, and reviews! Enjoy. Expect an update sometime this week, I promise it'll be a bit longer.

_Warning_: Implied (_not explicit_) sexual content. Could be read as possibly dub-con. Slurs.

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An outdated Chuck Berry song swirled around our thoughts as he balanced me on his knee. For the time, it was absolutely _fab_. The whole party was.

I sucked in his cigarette, half-lidded. I was perfect. My hair was blonde, just as he claimed he preferred. My thighs couldn't touch when my feet stood together. My breasts filled my minidress, being playful and naughty all at the same time. I was disgusting, in a way. I was a figment of some horrible man's fantasy that in truth, he didn't even really want. Everything about my appearance served to please him. Or, please his need to show off a beautiful trophy while his wife waits at home with their baby.

My arm hooked behind his neck. Neither of us were drunk, only uncaring. It was like we were barely there. My fingers played with his hair.

He smiled at his mate across the room. Anyone could tell why he looked so happily mischievous. He'd gained something here, something to boast about. Something that told everyone exactly who he was. The macho Liverpudlian. At least, he was about to when he took me up to his room. And in his mind, it was nothing selfish. It was a gift I was allowed to get near him at all. Every girl wanted him, every man wanted to be him. John Lennon. The Funny Beatle. That's who he was in 1963, anyway.

At some point, we left the party and entered the hotel lobby. Despite his drunken stumbling, his hand is firm on my waist. The people who watched us leave knew what was to come, and he liked that.

We were outside his hotel room now. He told me Paul shared the room, yes, Paul McCartney, the _Cute_ Beatle, the bassist, the other songwriter, the better one - he was babbling now. He was smiling and chuckling and trying to insert the key. There was the slightest blush across his nose when he drank.

"He's - Paul - he's still downstairs with Jane. She's leaving soon - I think she got a modelling gig… She's not staying with him here tonight." He rambled, unprompted, slightly giddy as he entered the suite. He realized with an endearing look back at me, "I mean, he won't come up needing to use the room. You saw him chatting up that blonde, but he doesn't do _that_ \- that sort of thing to her. Not to Jane. Paul doesn't run around behind her back, and you can tell that to the papers."

"Oh, good," I replied, dumbly. He knew that I was acting dumb. It didn't deter him. In fact, it made it easier when women were like this with him. So, he graced me with a smile and started kicking off his shoes and undoing his tie. I didn't like that. I didn't like that he smiled just because it was easy.

"But, don't feel bad," I stopped his busy hands and gently took off his tie myself.

"I don't," he said airily, still with an open smirk, barely taking in what I said, distracted by the removal of clothes.

"Don't feel bad," I continued, stuffing the tie somewhere underneath my dress. "Just because you _would_ do that 'sort of thing' to her. You must know that Paul does, too. He _seems_ too good for that, doesn't he?"

His expression barely changed. "Paul? He _is_ too good, too nice, he loves Jane too much... She's not my girl, that's why I, erm, I guess I _would_ do that to her". Quickly, he added, "but I'm not." Did he purposely misunderstand me? Or did he just have that much faith in Paul? Nonetheless, John grabbed the small of my back, almost as if to change the subject. He closed his eyes, drew us closer, and felt that electric sensation of touch.

"Not to Jane, I mean. To Cynthia."

That's when he stopped smiling. His eyes shot open and his hands fell to his sides. He scoffed, "Cynthia?" His head turned away hesitantly, "Cyn… cor, what are you on about?"

"Yes, Cynthia. I know you're on tour, but don't tell me you've forgotten your own wife?"

There was a beat of silence. His eyes went blank and his mouth hung a centimetre open, a bit ashamed like a little boy found playing Elvis too loud in his aunt's house. He searched my face for an answer, and I could provide nothing for him. That smirk was wiped off. I started taking off my heels.

"...'m not married," he broke. "I don't even have a bird."

To any Beatlemaniac at the time, this was the absolute truth. John was a bachelor, _the_ bachelor that everyone wanted. A paper had just reported "girls" as one of his hobbies. He was presented to be for the admiration of thousands upon thousands of desperate teenage fans, not that he particularly minded. It made nights like these easier to bear. When everyone around him forgot about his wife and baby boy waiting across the Atlantic, John could forget about them too. He could forget about the roles of husband or father. It would be a shame to allow that, I thought.

"Did your manager tell you that? To pretend Cynthia doesn't exist?" I said, gently wrapping an arm around his stiff body and breathing into his ear: "Don't you ever wonder why that fairy is asking a man like you to forget your wife?"

His negative response was barely loud enough to travel to my ear. One hand snaked down his pants. I whispered sweet nothings in his ears, asking him to prove he wasn't a dirty queer. His shaky breath wasn't telling me to stop. Perhaps I just didn't hear it.

* * *

John curled in a little ball underneath the blanket after we finished. He had fallen asleep childishly quickly. I sat up on the bed with one leg extended and fished his pack of Marlboros from the bedside drawer. His shoulders rose and fell, as vulnerable as a boy from Liverpool.

Did he dream of his family? Or of fame and fortune? Maybe he dreamt of songs he'd write someday - those were the kind of songs he'd soon get so jealous of for ensuring Paul's success, his easy superiority in the hearts of millions. Someday. Not today. Today, it was 1963, and everyone loved him. Brian had just told him that he was the frontman. His name came first in the credits. It wasn't Hamburg anymore, where every girl loved the cute bassist and John was overcome with love for a girl he had met at college, writing "I LOVE YOU" back home to her thousands of times. None of that mattered, maybe none of it even happened. Presently, he was overcome with pure admiration rivalling God himself - and it was so easy to mistake that for love. I almost felt bad for him.

When it was morning, I was gone. Paul had stayed at Jane's house for the night and John was alone.

XXXX

_A/N: _I know, 1st person POV. I thought of turning it to 3rd person but I thought this whole (semi-) omniscient narrator who's being all introspective on poor John could be interesting. Let me know if it's distracting. Or terribly done. I'm aware I probably fluffed up the real timeline of the Beatle's history, as this takes place during an American tour but also in 1963? That's minor, though, I think. I also think I'll do some more with this concept, maybe, possibly teasing Paul's infidelity with Jane?

Expect an update with a chapter with Johnny's best mate around Wednesday! Y'know, the Cute Beatle.

Disclaimer: I love the Beebles, including John, and don't necessarily hate/blame him or his actions even if the main character lowkey does. Don't get mad at me, Beatlemaniacs (haha).


	2. Want to Hear a Secret?

_A/N: _Welcome back! Thanks for the read again!

_Warnings:_ Minor violence.

XXXX

There was a knock at the door.

John whined from inside his hotel room. Something resembling "I'm coming, jus' hold on!" rumbled out of his mouth as he struggled out of the sheets. It must be morning now, he thought to his dismay. He must've woken up. It's good that he was disturbed, as John was too annoyed by that to remember the night before. Yet.

The glance at the mirror didn't help to cheer his mood, but he didn't bother to change or even ruffle his hair correctly before ripping the door open. It was Paul, already fitted in a modest jumper over a collared shirt. John peered at him, now a bit more conscious of his half-dressed state.

"Mornin', then," Paul scoffed in amusement after looking John up and down. He glanced behind him and pushed his way into the room, saying, "Fuckin' hell, John. I don't stay for a night and you leave it a mess. You didn't remember I was coming over this afternoon so we could finish writing the album?"

Grumblings and the sound of a door slamming shut were ignored as Paul began to sort the papers on the writing desk. Various letters, drawings, ideas, and song notes were being put aside. John threw himself on the bed, face first. Right,_ the bed…_

After an incessant series of pokes to his shoulder, John grumbled and flipped himself over. The shades of daylight peeking through the curtains were enough to blind him. Paul stood over him, shaking his head, "You've got to get up, John. We've got three days to write three songs, and we've got to get something done today if we ever want to finish on time."

"'m _tired_, Paul," John droned.

"C'mon, I stayed at the party later than you, and I'm alright. You've got the blonde to soothe you to an early sleep last night, didn't you?" Paul's teasing tone gave John a sense of dread.

A sudden warmth spread on his cheeks. John buried his head in his pillow, forgetting the macho manliness he'd like to exhume. "...no. Nothing happened, Paulie," he lied.

"Not with the charming John Lennon?" Paul headed back to the desk, not bothering to face the bed. John sat up and watched as Paul swayed and hummed one of their new melodies, busying himself with the task of organization. One end of the room was carefree and light. John's eyes snapped down to the sheets he sat on. They were unmade, dirty, and caused a crude memory to float back into his brain.

"Aren't I _married_ now, McCartney?" John asked in a low voice, every word feeling stuck to his tongue. He made sure to keep his eyes down.

Without skipping a beat, Paul laughed, "I don't remember you _ever_ really caring about marriage 'n all the junk like that before. I mean, I know you love her, but when Lennon's faced with a pretty bird… What, did all the love songs get to yer head?"

A slight scoff came out of John disguised as a laugh. He turned to where she had been on the bed last night, recounting their actions in his head with a thousand-yard stare.

"Are you coming to write with me or not?" Paul called, still occupied with rummaging through John's desk. "You can worry about your homing bird later. In fact, once we're done, I'll walk with you to the office so you can post her this letter you've written personally." He held up an unfamiliar envelope above his shoulder, waving it to catch John's attention.

The letter was snatched from behind with a strange intensity, almost ripping the paper in the process. Neither had even realized John had leaped out of bed yet. The event didn't especially surprise Paul, but the appearance of a letter he had no memory writing certainly surprised John.

"This isn't my handwriting, ye git," John jeered after taking a moment to turn the sealed envelope over in his hands. It was addressed with exact precision to Cynthia Powell Lennon at their flat back in England. Eppy had arranged the address so all the fans wouldn't find them. It was their little hideaway, the few moments John could ever make it home. It was one of those things Cynthia could privately have as proof that, yes, she _was_ rightfully John's. And John was supposed to be her's at the end of the day, too.

"Well, it isn't mine. Did you get someone to transcribe for you? You're illiterate, you know," Paul answered casually. When another joke was ignored, Paul spun back to his friend, arms crossed, to watch him tear open the letter with his teeth. "Let me see it, then?"

John drew back from Paul's reaching hands as he processed the written words. "Oh, for fucks sake…" he breathed, his eyes glued to the paper. "Tell me you wrote this, Paul? To fuck with me, right?"

Hearing Paul's answer of "No, Johnny," left John feeling the headache and sense of impending doom grow stronger. He went quiet, re-reading the page.

"What's wrong, John?" Paul extended his hands, gentler this time. "Just lemme read it."

John flicked his eyes back at his mate, wide and calculating for a split second. His mind turned to static. No need to weigh the options.

The paper was ripped into quarters and it's bits left on the ground. John wiped his hands on his pyjamas as if he had committed a crime and said, "Forget it, Paul. Just… forget it, yeah?"

"Sure, John. Er, if you'd like. Of course." Paul answered, feeling in the dark again. He kept his lips shut, watching as John paced up and down the short room and huffed. There was nothing on the bed, yet John would keep sneaking glances at it. Paul's fingers wavered, and his eyes wandered down to the tattered papers.

"I'll… we'll write after I go freshen up. Alright?" John murmured before stepping into the bathroom, leaving Paul standing alone in the middle of the room. It seemed barren without John's muttering. Paul heard the distant sounds of a shower turning on.

John will be back in a minute. And in a minute, John will be calm again. Paul still felt a twinge of uneasiness as he reached down and picked the scraps up.

Paul took care with arranging the four quarters on the desk, wondering if he was missing something crucial. As the paper became readable, it became clear the handwriting was of a stranger. Neat and bold, not the familiar messy informality of John's. Paul would have no way of knowing this, but it was the writing of a woman who wasn't even from this time. A character who knew more about them than they knew about themselves.

The letter began,

_Dear Cynthia Powell Lennon (or maybe soon it'll just be Powell?)_

_I'm sure you're well aware of this, or you've at least heard the rumours, but you won't allow yourself to believe it. It's a shame. You deserve better, don't you know? And John knows this, too. But he can't stop himself. And he loves you, he loves you. You must know that. You remember that Christmas letter back in '58… "I LOVE YOU CYN, YES YES YES"._

Strange. No explanation for John's panic. Paul was too engrossed to notice that the shower had gone quiet.

_Those were still the good years. Do you believe that it isn't anymore? That the shaky period right now will soon pass? I advise you to leave before he breaks your heart. He's already done it, though, hasn't he? You just wanted to dance with Stu. Your friend, Stuart. His friend, too._

Outside of Paul's knowledge, John had dried himself off and put on proper clothes.

_It wasn't until Stu spun you around that you noticed John against the wall, watching. That pretty pair, he thought. You excused yourself. He didn't talk to you for the rest of the night. He didn't say much when he found you down in the basement, alone, and forced you against a wall. The slap hurt. Your cheek burned for the rest of the night and you went home. You didn't see him for months._

Paul remembered when, once, he had noticed that John didn't have that blonde bird with him anymore. He didn't know Cynthia then. John said that they had a silly spat. It was an empty lie.

_Yet he begged for you to come back, and you did so gladly. You remembered the days when you had just met him. He had charmed you out of your engagement with the man in America just by asking you to dance. He sang you "Ain't She Sweet." He was yours. But you knew in the back of your mind even then, didn't you? You knew there had to be something just underneath the surface..._

It was hard to imagine John Lennon - the tuff ted who acted as a bad influence for all the good boys in Liverpool - as someone who could romance a girl like Cynthia. John Lennon, who had ridiculed all the lovey-dovey dull romantics, until one day he had found himself in love. One day, he found himself singing for her. One day, he found himself marrying her. That very man was currently stopped in his tracks, just outside the bathroom door, hair still dripping. Every thought turned into a scream as he caught Paul reading the _fucking letter…_

So, it wasn't John's thoughts that moved him to wrangle his friend's hair in one hand, forcing Paul to snap out of thought. Paul swore he could feel the hair ripping right off his head. John was dragging him, screaming something unintelligible. Paul couldn't tell what it was, he needed John to let go. So Paul yelped and thrashed and tried to land any hits he could. It was all futile, of course. It was like a little boy holding onto his father's trouser legs and crying for him not to go. John threw Paul down to the floor. He turned into a trembling slump trying to pull himself up. Gasping for air, brow furrowed, Paul wanted to understand _why_.

John turned away from the boy on the ground, fuming, seeing red. He was rubbing his face, his eyes, making his hands move in any way that wouldn't have him beating Paul into the ground. He took a shaky deep breath, wanting to drown out the ragged breathing from behind him.

Paul was on the floor, one arm propped up, red in the face and panting. The papers had flown about in the chaos. There was a pang of shame in Paul's chest, but he ignored that. The sense of resentment came much easier. It seemed more obvious.

John paced back and forth, not daring to look at the boy who was still on the floor. Fervent, panicked sounds emanated from John, talking to himself. Paul didn't move a muscle, but he bit, "The _fucks_ wrong with you?"

Without warning, John tramped towards him and for a second Paul braced himself. But if John wanted to fight, Paul wouldn't shy away. There was still a slight feeling of relief when John only swiped the papers, making a harsh crinkling sound in his clenched fist. His stature towered over Paul, whose face was too blurry to make out. There was nothing that could stop John from howling roughly, "I can't stand the way you nose your way into my _fuckin_' life, McCartney! I never want to see you worm your way into my business again! I'll fuckin kill you! I can't _stand_ you!"

What could be done but to wince? John stood tall, jaw tense, spitting these horrible things in his best mate's face. Sometimes Paul forgot he could do this.

"Aren't you going to fucking say something, you goddamned divvy?" John let his voice go hoarse. "Won't you at least fucking… say something?" He noticed his voice go off, a decibel softer. "Say something, Macca. I…"

For a second, John looked helpless again. Paul just breathed, already controlling himself. Breathed it all in. John couldn't stand how Paul could just breathe and not let it get any worse.

"I…" John wheezed. "...Did you read it?". He clutched the papers harder in his hands, wishing he could make it disappear.

"...Yea, mate. A bit," Paul responded in a cool voice, as much as he could manage.

"How far did you…?"

"Not much - " he cut his explanation short. If he said almost nothing, maybe John would calm down.

Stopping to stare at the wall, John's thoughts went quieter. "Forget it," he said sharply.

"O-okay."

"It's just…" John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You know what I get up to, don't you? But, uhm, there are rumours. I think... I think it's getting out. I get nervous every time Cyn opens the morning paper. Me and some bird snogging on the front page, you know?"

After Paul's wordless answer, John stretched out his hand begrudgingly, eyes on the carpet but not on the man. They gripped each other's forearms and Paul was pulled up. As soon as he was standing, Paul tried to shove his arm back to his side. John held on.

"You don't think that Cynthia, erm, knows, does she?" John's grip squeezed Paul's arm, and suddenly they seemed close again.

"...what?" Paul spoke as soft as he could. If John would allow Paul to see him, see his eyes, maybe they'd understand each other. But he didn't.

"Cynthia doesn't know, does she? I mean, I love her. I just can't help it when…" his voice trailed off. "C'mon, Paul, tell me."

"John, I don't…"

"Just fuckin' tell me. I mean, she knows I'm a _Beatle_, right? I can't… I didn't _choose_... I mean, I can't help it. She's the only one I've ever loved, Paul."

"I - I don't know, John. Honest."

John paused. His grasp turned too tight for Paul's ease of mind. "Did you tell her?"

Paul was left speechless by the very implication.

"You're terribly nice to her, you know? Did you once let slip…?" he strained to say it.

"No!"

"Did you ever let anyone know at the party, though? The rumours spread quick and you _know_ that, don't you?"

"Course not! John, did you really think - "

"Don't you think she notices, though?" John's eyes stuck to the floor. "How when we'd go to parties - you know, as _normal_ people - that you'd always leave with Jane and I'd let Cyn go home early so she could get some rest… but of course, I never came home till morning, did I?

"She must notice that you… You're so perfect, huh?" John gave a weak, weary chuckle.

'Johnny," Paul half-scoffed, believing none of this was happening. "You know that's not true." He stopped himself from slipping out _we're more alike than you think._

"Oh, shut up. Even your face… that's why every girl wanted you, didn't they? I thought I was used to that by now. You're an angel, y'know that? When I stand next to you, even on stage, I just… I'm not as good, am I?" John's voice almost seemed amused. Broken. "Everyone knows that. There's a reason you're the 'Cute Beatle', Paul. I'm just the bad seed. A bad influence on McCartney's kid, huh? Remember that?"

If John had braved to look at Paul's face, he'd see one of concern. One of affection. The rest of Paul stood as stiff as John, not wanting to tell anything more than they meant to. Slowly, in a gentle voice, Paul soothed, "John, I never said..."

"You don't have to," John let go of Paul's arm, pushing him away as he did so. Paul didn't know why he was surprised when he caught John's strong glare.

It was silent. What was to be said to help John see, to know that Paul wants him to be alright? There is no conspiracy. And Paul felt his chest twist in frustration because John was still acting like a child.

"I never said anything of the like, so why are you taking it up with me?" Paul said, words growing thick with disdain.

"C'mon, y'think I don't notice the - the way you sneer at me?" John shook his head.

"_Johnny_ \- !"

"Get out," John said lowly and his fingers began to twitch in his fist, reminded of the stupid piece of paper that started all this.

Paul let the silence hang there. It was suffocating.

"_Get out!_" John barked, harsher this time."I can't stand your bloody presence."

"...I'm not leaving," Paul croaked.

"_What_?"

Paul could see John's expression clearly as he snapped his head up. It did not reassure him. Yet Paul didn't waver from John's fiery eyes, hissing, "You're acting like a _baby_ \- "

"You're acting like a _snob_! A bleedin' git! Because that's what you _are_, McCartney! You're some fucking idiot from Liverpool who made it to America because you're the bass player in some dense band and you happen to have a pretty face!"

Paul looked blank, almost softened.

"You should've stayed in fucking Liverpool with Ol' Jim McCartney. Have a happy little family because I think that's what you always wanted.

"I don't know _why_ you followed me all the way through college and Hamburg and the fuckin' Beatles. Like a puppy, infatuated with copying me - even my leather trousers. Picking fights with Stu just to get my bleeding approval, poor bastard. Y'know what? I think you'll always be little goody McCartney's kid. I don't know _how_ you ended up _here_!"

Paul scowled, "I'm yer partner! I did as much as you did to get here!"

"C'mon, Princess! You wrote some silly love songs and flash a smile and now you're a king! But to be a _Beatle_... the people we were _supposed_ to turn out to be… You're not cut out for it, and you know it! Get back to the sweet little neighbourhood you came from, why don't you? You don't even _like _it here. You think I'm a bloody divvy, an idiot. _Leave_, then! _Leave_!"

These words echoed through their consciousness. Paul felt his throat hitch, and John's eyes burned into his. The room got compact, every breath coming out hot and heavy. Every thought being pushed out by the need to make a mistake.

"Least I'm not fucking around on my own wife," John heard, and it was like the walls came down. "You don't even know your kid, Johnny."

There was a small sense of victory when John's eyes went helpless and lost. The fire went out for a split second before John realized who he was.

Before he could object, Paul was held up by his collar and knocked against the wall. Paul gasped, focused on John's face, and neither said a word. Their stares killed each other. John's lips were pulled into a thin line, and Paul hoped he'd second-guess himself. Still, Paul didn't even struggle. He took the punch. The punch that was intended to knock a tooth out. It was solid, bony. Both felt the heavy _thunk_ of Paul's skull and the _crack_ of his teeth. John watched it all unfold, ignoring the fact that he was doing this or that he was doing it to Paul. When Paul only inhaled a cool breath, wincing but keeping a strong face, John dropped him. He fell to the floor like a ragdoll and groaned. It was deep, gravely, and stubborn. Stubborn to make John feel like he just did something meaningless. Stubborn to tell John that it didn't even matter.

John took control of his breathing again, staring down at the downtrodden Paul. He wished it never happened.

Paul looked up when the door slammed shut and he was alone again. He sat there, docile. If he stayed still, he hoped he could sink back into the ground and disappear. The sterile atmosphere tingled on his skin. His jaw began to get sore and he waited for his head to stop spinning so that maybe he could stand. Things were still fizzy. Anger settled in a pit somewhere in his stomach, not to be lashed out now. Sometime later. Later, perhaps. If the anger stayed. Sometimes it turned into a simple feeling of unfairness, of quiet bitterness. But somehow, right now, Paul worried about his attacker. No. His friend, his partner, who was stumbling through the streets and not thinking right. Who didn't know what he was doing, who couldn't control what he was doing. But it's impossible to hold him back. John Lennon couldn't help it. Paul felt a sharp pang of sadness for the lot of them.

XXXX

_A/N:_ Did I really write 1st person character perspective in one chapter and then the next chapter didn't have that character? So I used 3rd person instead? hahaha FUCK. Thanks for making it this far, anyway. This one is almost double the length of the first chapter. No, I don't know why, considering everything.


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